


What You Were Then, I Am Today

by Quintessence



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 11:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3648648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quintessence/pseuds/Quintessence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>4 times Bucky took care of Steve, and one time Steve returned the favor</p>
            </blockquote>





	What You Were Then, I Am Today

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-upload after I took this down. The title is from The Avett Brothers' "I and Love and You" which is an excellent song if you feel like being smacked in the face with Steve/Bucky feelings. Want to come cry about pre-catfa and post-catws stuff with me? You can find me at hellofoggy.tumblr.com! Enjoy!

1

It’s a Wednesday morning and Steve is nine years old, lying on the floor of Bucky’s bedroom.  Bucky grabs Steve’s hand and laces their fingers together, noticing that Steve’s fingernails look a little blue.  Bucky doesn’t know what that means, exactly, but he knows it tends to happen when Steve’s breathing gets particularly bad.  Steve tries to suck in a breath, his whole body quivering with the strain.

“I told you that you shouldn’t’ve been playing baseball with us,” Bucky says.  “You know it’s too humid for you today.  You should’ve listened.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything. 

“What’s it at right now?” Bucky asks, shifting from admonishing to concerned.  He and Steve have a system, their special way of communicating how bad things are, a zero to ten scale.  Zero means perfect, full, deep breaths, and ten is passed out.  Steve once had to hold up his fingers to signal a nine when he didn’t have enough air to answer.

“Six,” Steve replies, but Bucky knows that means it’s probably actually a seven and Steve’s just trying to be brave.  Sevens are where Bucky starts to worry.

“Alright, pal, you just lay still.  I’m gonna get you some water.”

Laying still and drinking water are the only ways Bucky knows to make things better, and sometimes they don’t even help.  Bucky gives Steve’s hand a quick squeeze before he pads barefoot into the kitchen to get a glass.  Worried as he is, he feels very grown up filling the glass up with water and bringing it back to Steve.  He likes taking care of Steve, likes feeling like his best friend needs him.  The world doesn’t appreciate Steve Rogers as much as it should, and Bucky’s torn between wishing it would and worrying that when it does, Steve’s going to find new friends and realize Bucky isn’t worth keeping around.  But right now, he can help Steve, prove that he’s worth having as a best friend.

Steve props himself up enough to take a few sips of water, then lies back down and tries to take a deep breath, half gasping.  Bucky takes his hand again and decides right then that as much as he likes Steve needing him, he’d give it up if Steve would be okay.

“Why don’t we play a game?” Bucky offers.  Brave as he’s acting, Bucky knows Steve always gets a little scared when his asthma gets this bad.  He figures he should try to help take Steve’s mind off of it.

“Sorry, Buck, but I don’t think I’m up for any games right now,” Steve says, more than a little breathy.

“Nah, it ain’t sports or anything like that.   It’s easy.”  Bucky flips Steve’s hand over so his palm is facing up.  “I’m gonna write a word and you have to figure out what it is.”

“That isn’t much to figure, if the word’s right there.”

“I’m not gonna write it on paper, you dummy,” Bucky says, and he begins tracing a letter on Steve’s palm.

"Is that an A?”

“Nope.”

“H?”

“That’s right!”

Bucky traces another letter.  Steve’s palm is a little clammy, but he doesn’t mind.

“I!”

“That’s your first word!”

“Hi? That’s not a very hard one.”

"Fine, you punk, I’ll pick the hardest word I know!”

Bucky begins tracing again.

"B – E – C – H –

"Try again.”

"A?”

"Yep!”

"U-S-E. Because? That can’t be the hardest word you know.”

"It was a spelling word last year!  That means it’s pretty hard!”

They go back and forth like that for a half hour, Bucky tracing and Steve guessing, until Steve has to stop talking because he’s trying to save his air.  Bucky forces himself to hold back his tears as he traces “B-R-E-A-T-H-E” into Steve’s hand over and over.  Bucky wishes he paid more attention in church and knew a few more prayers, because he doesn’t really know how to talk to God, but he thinks as loud as he can.  _Please, God, if there’s anyone on this earth you need to be looking out for, it’s Steve.  Just help him breathe a little, okay?  I swear I’ll be real good and pray all the time if you do.  I’m just asking for one thing.  Just make sure he’s okay._

Fifteen minutes pass with Steve breathing shallowly, until finally he manages a full breath.  His muscles relax, and they both know it’s ending soon.  Finally, Steve manages to sit up, takes another sip of water.

"You had me pretty worried, you know,” Bucky tells him.

"I was fine!” Steve insists.  “Besides, I knew what to do, with you scratching into my hand to breathe until you practically wore my skin off.”

Bucky shoves his shoulder and Steve shoves back, playfully, but they both secretly know it helped.

 

2

It’s a Monday night, Steve is fourteen years old, and his nose won’t stop bleeding.  Bucky found him in an empty parking lot, getting the living shit kicked out of him.  Bucky’s heart caught in his throat when he recognized the shadowy figure struggling to stand back up as Steve.  Any other kid would’ve just stayed down, but Steve never did know how to walk away from a fight.  It was three on one, unfair odds – even if Steve wasn’t as small as he is – and it made Bucky’s blood boil. He dashed into the shadowy parking lot and sent the three of them running (probably broke a nose or two in the process) scooped up Steve, and half carried him home.  So Steve is sitting on the closed toilet seat in Bucky’s bathroom, holding one of Bucky’s old undershirts to his face to stop the bleeding, the white shirt quickly turning scarlet.  Bucky doesn’t care much about the shirt, just Steve.

"You’re gonna have a real nice shiner,” he jokes.  One of Steve’s eyes is swollen nearly shut. “It’ll make you look real tough, get you a lot of girls.”

"Sure, because having an eye you can’t see out of is awful attractive.”

 Bucky laughs.

“So why were you going at it this time?”  Bucky’s always dragging Steve out of fights, at least one every week or so.

Steve’s cheeks go red, flushing with anger like Bucky’s seen a thousand times. “Those three guys I was fighting –

"Those guys you were _fighting_?” Bucky challenges.  “That wasn’t even a fight, Steve.  That was just you getting your ass kicked.”

"Did I ask you?” Steve replies, but there’s no real venom in it, and he continues. “Anyway, earlier they were picking on these little kids, couldn’t’ve been more than ten.  I don’t know what they were saying, but they had a boy and girl in tears, so I went over and told them to quit it.  They didn’t appreciate being told what to do too much.”

"So it was one of your usual crusades.”

“It’s not a crusade, Buck!  I’m just trying to stand up for people, do the right thing.”

Bucky’s heard that line too many times.  Steve’s always trying to fight the world’s battles on his own.  It’s one of the things Bucky admires most about Steve.  It’s also one of the things that drives him craziest.

"You bruised up anywhere else but your face?” Bucky asks.

"Might’ve gotten kicked in the ribs a couple of times,” Steve admits.

"Let’s see then.”

Steve slips his suspenders off his shoulders and begins unbuttoning his shirt.

"Jesus, Steve! That’s not getting kicked ‘a couple of times.’”

The entire right side of Steve’s torso is swollen and red.  Usually Bucky can count each of Steve’s ribs, but now he can’t see the outline of a single one under all the swelling.  Bucky feels sick looking at Steve like this.  They easily could’ve broken some of his ribs, and Bucky doesn’t want to think about how Steve would be looking had Bucky not arrived when he did .

"I gotta check if they’re broken,” Bucky says.  Steve’s mom is a nurse, and she was kind enough to teach Bucky how to feel for broken ribs. It’s a skill he’s had to call upon on several occasions.  “It’s gonna hurt.  I’m sorry about that.”

"It’s fine.” Steve says, his jaw set.

Steve presses his lips together as Bucky kneels down next to him.  He pushes tentatively on Steve’s side, and Steve’s breath comes out in a hiss.

"You know I’m gonna have to push harder than that to really check, right?”

“I know.  Just go ahead, get it over with.”

Bucky takes Steve’s hand and places it on his own shoulder.

"Squeeze as hard as you need to,” he says, and begins pressing on Steve’s ribs.  Instantly, Steve’s nails are digging into his skin, his knuckles going white.

"You’re doing great, Stevie.  Just breathe.  I’ve already done two, just take it easy.” Bucky continues checking, and keeps his voice low and soothing.  “That’s it, we’re halfway there.  So far none of ‘em are broken, so that’s something.  Just keep breathing.  Hang in there, pal; we’re nearly done.”

Bucky finally finishes and he looks up at Steve, who’s white as the porcelain sink he’s seated next to.

"Nothing’s broken, at least.”

"Thanks for checking,” Steve says, and gives Bucky a small smile.

"C’mon,” Bucky says, taking Steve’s hand and helping him up.  “Let’s get you some ice, alright?”

 

3

It’s a Saturday afternoon, Steve is eighteen, and his mom’s been dead for two weeks.  Bucky opens the door to find him in the hallway of the apartment building, with the familiar crease of worry between his eyebrows.  Steve’s been sadder and quieter than usual these past few weeks, coming over to Bucky’s every couple days to have a good cry, but never talking about what’s bothering him.  Something’s different this time, though.  Bucky can tell.

"You wanna come in?”

Steve nods.

He slips in the house, quiet and small, and sits at Bucky’s kitchen table.  He lets his head drop into his hands.  Bucky doesn’t know if he’s crying, but he sits down next to him and rubs circles on his back.  It’s comforting for Bucky too; Steve’s ma was like a second mother to him, and he misses her something fierce.

"Let me get you a handkerchief,” Bucky offers, after they’ve been sitting there a while.  Steve mumbles something that Bucky takes to mean it’s alright.

Bucky returns with a handkerchief and a slice of fresh bread, because he learned from his ma that you’re supposed to feed people who are sad.  Steve blows his nose loudly and picks at the bread a little.

"You wanna talk about it?”

"I don’t know what there is to say.  It’s been two weeks and it still doesn’t feel real.”

“I know.  I’m so sorry, Steve.”

They’re quiet again for a moment.

"She was a swell lady,” Bucky starts. “One of the most beautiful, kindest people I’ve ever met.  I mean she’d have to be, because she raised you.  And it’s just been the two of you for as long as you can remember, I know that.  And she always managed to take care of you, even working as much as she did.  She was something special.”

"Thanks, Buck,” Steve says, and balls up the handkerchief in his fist.

Steve tears off a piece of the bread and chews it slowly.

"Alright, what’s really eatin’ you?  Because there’s something you aren’t telling me.”

"Can’t a guy be sad because his mom just died?”

"Well sure, but you ain’t just sad.  You’re worried about something.  I know you.”

Steve presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and sighs.  Steve has some awful big sighs for such a small person.

"C’mon, you know you can tell me anything.”

Steve mumbles something inaudibly.

"What’s that?”

"I’m gonna have to quit taking art classes,” Steve says, barely audible.  “And I know it’s stupid, because there are a lot worse things going on in my life right now.  My mom just died, for Christ’s sake, and I’m sitting here worried about art class.  But my mom, she really wanted me to go somewhere with drawing and all that.  It was one of the last conversations we had.  And now I can’t even do that for her.”

"What do you mean you gotta stop taking classes?” Bucky demands.  Steve’s been drawing as long as Bucky’s known him, and he’s damn good at it.  Art is going to take Steve places; Bucky knows that.  Lately he’s been able to scrape together the funds to take some real university classes and his drawing has only gotten better.  There’s no way Bucky’s going to let him give that up.

"I was barely affording it as things were, and now with only my income, I’ve hardly got enough money to pay the rent and eat.  I gotta stop taking classes and pick up some more shifts.”

“You know there’s an easy solution to your problem.  There’s always room under my roof for you.”

Steve shoots him a look. “We’ve already had that conversation.”

"And I don’t see why you won’t take me up on my offer.”

"I told you; I can do this on my own.  And I’m not imposing on your folks like that.”

"Fine,” Bucky says, because he knows he can’t win this one. “Fine.  Then how about something else?”

"What sort of something else?”

"Well,” Bucky says, leaning back in his chair and choosing his words carefully, “My parents don’t really need me hanging around their place anymore, and I’ve been itching to get out on my own.  How about you and I go get a place for ourselves?  Don’t expect it to be too nice or anything, but we’d split the rent and all the bills – that way you’d be able to keep taking classes.  What do you say?”

"I don’t know, Buck,” Steve says.  “I don’t need you doing me any favors, picking up all those extra expenses just to help me out.”

"Weren’t you listening to me?  I’m sick of living with my parents.  We’re adults now – we should have our own place!  It’s what we’ve talked about since we were little kids; you and me with our own apartment.  Now let’s finally make it happen!”

"You’re serious?”

"Of course I’m serious, you punk.  Just the two of us – it’ll be great.”

Steve considers his offer for a moment.

"You promised your ma you’d keep drawing.  How would she feel if she knew you were passing up your one opportunity to keep at it?”

It’s a loaded question, Bucky knows that, but it does the trick.

"Alright,” Steve says finally.  “Alright, we can start looking for a place tomorrow.”

Steve smiles and him and Bucky smiles back.  It seems right, the two of them living together.

 

4

It’s a Tuesday evening, Steve is twenty six years old, and he’s shaking.  He and Bucky finally got a moment alone in a small tent back at the base camp and as soon as Colonel Phillips left them, Steve just crumpled.  He led them back from the Hydra base through miles of forest, never faltering, always the confident, competent leader.  His new body allowed him to march for a day and a half without needing a rest, but the way he’s looking now, Bucky wonders if he isn’t going to shrink back to his old size.

"Hey, Steve, c’mon,” Bucky soothes. “What’s the matter?  You did it; you got us home.  Everyone’s alright and you’re a big damn hero.  What are you so torn up about?”

Steve clenches his hands into fists in an effort to make them stop shaking, but he doesn’t answer.

Bucky takes a seat on the small cot beside him, takes Steve’s hands in his own and holds them still.

"What is it?”

Steve still doesn’t respond.

"If you don’t tell me, I’m gonna assume something’s going wrong with that serum they gave you, and I’m gonna call a medic in here to check you out.”

Steve told Bucky all about Project Rebirth on the walk back to base.  Bucky listened, amazed, and then smacked Steve in the back of the head for being so stupid as to agree to something that crazy.

"I’m fine,” Steve says finally. “I don’t need a medic.”

"So what’s wrong? Because you’re starting to worry me.”

Steve closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath.

"What would I do without you?” he asks.

"Aw, c’mon Steve, don’t get all sentimental on me.”

"No, Bucky,” Steve insists. “I’m asking you a question.  What would I do without you?”

"Gee, I don’t know. You’re Captain America now, so I guess you’d go running around with the army.”

Steve shakes his head.

"That’s what you don’t understand.  I couldn’t just ‘run around with the army.’ Not without you.  You’re the one thing I’ve had all my life; I couldn’t just lose you and keep going.  You gotta understand – I can’t lose you.”

"Okay,” Bucky says, growing more concerned. “Well you’re not gonna lose me.  I plan on sticking around for a good long while.”

"But I almost did,” Steve says softly. “You were tortured, Buck, and I know you’re not real keen on talking about it, but you were.  I don’t even know how long.  Hours? Days?  You could’ve died.  And what if I had been a day or two later? What would’ve happened to you?”

Bucky swallows hard.  It’s true – he doesn’t want to talk about what happened back in Zola’s lab.  The things they did to him.  How they injected fire into his veins until his whole body felt like it was burning from the inside out.  How he screamed until his voice went hoarse.  How he begged and sobbed for Steve.  He’d hardly thought it was real when Steve appeared in the lab.  He figured they must’ve finally broken him, that he’d gone crazy and his mind was showing him exactly what he’d been desperate to see.

"But you weren’t a day later.  You came through and you saved me.  Saved all of us.  I’m alive, Steve.  I’m here and I’m alive and I’m gonna stay that way.”

"But what if you weren’t?  What if you died?  Because you came close.  What if you’re not even real?  What if you died back there and I’m just hallucinating you?”

Steve has stopped making sense, but Bucky suddenly feels the need to prove how alive and real he is.  Before he can stop himself, he leans in close to Steve until he can feel Steve’s breath warm against his cheek.  His hands come up to rest against the side of Steve’s face and he lets his eyes flutter closed and he leans in farther.

And suddenly they’re kissing. Steve’s mouth is warm and soft and he presses their lips chastely together and it’s not much, but it’s somehow the best kiss of Bucky’s life.  His pulse is pounding in his ears and he moves his lips softly against Steve’s.  Steve’s hands come up to tangle in Bucky’s hair and he deepens the kiss and Bucky thinks that although he survived two and a half days of torture in Zola’s lab, he’s going to die from this.

They break for air and Steve rests his forehead against Bucky’s for a moment.  Bucky opens his eyes as he feels Steve pull away, and examines him.  His cheeks are flushed and his lips are bright red, but he looks happy.

"Well now I know you’re not real,” Steve says. “Because the real Bucky Barnes would never kiss me.”

“I have it on good authority that the real Bucky Barnes has been waiting to do that for a longer time than you’d think.”

"How long?”

“I’m not telling you that, you punk!  That’s private.”

Steve smirks.

“But I’m okay,” Bucky says, serious again.  “I’m alive and I’m real. Alright?”

"Alright.”

Steve leans in and puts his head against Bucky’s shoulder and Bucky wraps his arms around him.  It’ll take some time to get used to Steve’s new size.

"I’m alive and I’m here and I promise I’m not going to leave you,” Bucky murmurs into Steve’s hair.

 

1

It’s in the early hours of Thursday morning, Steve is both ninety-six and twenty-seven years old, and he wakes up to screaming for the second time this week.  It’s Bucky’s voice, raw and afraid, coming from the room across the hall.  Steve leaps out of bed and dashes out of the room, throwing Bucky’s bedroom door open.  From the moonlight spilling in through the window, he can see Bucky, curled up impossibly small in the far corner of the room.  He’s stopped screaming now, but he’s shivering and rocking back and forth, making small whimpering noises, which Steve thinks might be even worse.

Steve doesn’t move from the doorway, knowing that approaching Bucky when he’s like this can be at best, upsetting and at worst, downright dangerous.  The first time Bucky had a nightmare Steve had bolted into the room, worried a Hydra agent had broken into the apartment to recapture Bucky.  Bucky, startled by Steve’s sudden movements, had knocked him to the ground and wrapped his metal hand around Steve’s throat, squeezing tighter and tighter until the edges of Steve’s vision started to go black.  Finally, Bucky had realized it was Steve, not Pierce or Rumlow or any of the other Hydra agents who had tortured him for years, and released him.   He’d been so ashamed and embarrassed he had avoided Steve for almost an entire week.

"Bucky?” Steve asks gently from his doorway.  Bucky keeps making the high, whining noise and rocking. “Hey, Buck, it’s me.  It’s Steve.  You just had another nightmare, but it’s over now.  You’re safe.  You’re here in D.C.  No one is going to hurt you.”

Bucky stops whimpering but stays curled in the corner.

"Is it okay if I come in?”

"Yeah,” Bucky says, in a hoarse whisper.  He clears his throat and tries again, a little stronger this time. “Yeah, come in.”

Steve walks over to Bucky and holds out his hand.

"Let’s get you off the floor, okay? That can’t be too comfortable.”

Bucky takes Steve’s hand and let’s himself be helped up and led over to the bed, where Steve sits down next to him.

"Do you want to tell me what it was this time?”

Nightmares are common for Bucky, but they’ve lessened slightly over the weeks he’s stayed with Steve.  Steve always asks what Bucky’s dreamed about, but Bucky’s only sometimes willing to discuss them.  Often it’s some horrific torture or brainwashing Hydra performed on him, occasionally it’s a mission he was sent on, people he killed.   At times Bucky won’t give any hint besides “you wouldn’t want me to stay here anymore if I told you,” or “shit, goddamnit, I killed them.  I killed them all.”

Bucky opens his mouth to answer, but the words won’t come.  He starts gagging and heaving, bending over, arms wrapped around himself.  Steve gets up to get the trashcan from across the room, but Bucky grabs his arm and stops him.  Bucky takes a deep breath, in through his nose and out through his mouth, the way Steve taught him.

"Don’t go,” he manages to say.

"I won’t.  I’m right here,” Steve assures him. “Can I touch you?”

Bucky nods.  Steve runs his hand through Bucky’s hair, his fingertips trailing along his scalp.  Bucky’s shoulders drop and his breathing slows as Steve continues to comb through his hair, gently working out knots and tangles.  They stay like that for a while, silent.

"I remembered how I got my arm.  The metal one, I mean.”

"Well if you remembered how you got your other one, I’d be awfully impressed.”

"Shut up, Steve,” Bucky says, but Steve can see the corner of his mouth quirk into a half smile.  It quickly fades as he continues talking. “I already lost up to my elbow when I fell out of that train.  I laid there for a while, bleeding, and then Zola found me, and two men dragged me through the snow.  And it hurt like hell, having half my arm ripped off, but I guess I was in shock or something, because I felt like I was watching it from above.  Like I was aware of the pain, but it wasn’t really me who was feeling it.  And I watched a trail of red forming on the white snow and I remember thinking it was kind of beautiful, the contrast and the colors.  I remember thinking you could’ve drawn it and made it look real pretty.  And then I passed out.”

Bucky doesn’t usually talk this much, especially about the nightmares.  Steve stops combing Bucky’s hair and takes his hand instead, rubbing his thumb in comforting circles.

"The next thing I knew I was in a lab.  Looked like something out of those old science fiction pictures we used to watch, with weird instruments everywhere.  And I was lying on a table, spread eagled, my arms and legs and head all strapped down.  There was some needle in my arm with some sort of yellowish fluid flowing through, and before I could ask what the hell was going on, they were sawing off my shoulder.  It hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt in my life and they went slow.  I couldn’t’ve been in shock anymore because I felt everything.  I was screaming my head off and I knew I should’ve passed out because it hurt that bad, but I just couldn’t.  I could smell the blood and I could hear the grinding of the saw against my bone and I just kept screaming and screaming.  I wanted to die it hurt so bad.  I was begging them to kill me.  Eventually I threw up, but I couldn’t even turn my head to the side to spit it out ‘cause of the restraints.  And after maybe fifteen minutes they had sawed all the way through and they talked in German for a little, sounded excited about something.  Then they pulled the needle out of my arm, and I guess that was what was keeping me awake because I passed out right after and I woke up later and my left arm was metal.”

Bucky had tried to sound casual and conversational through the whole story, but Steve can feel him shaking.  He wraps his arm around Bucky’s shoulders and holds him tight.

"I’m so sorry, Buck,” he whispers. “God, I’m so sorry.  But I promise no one’s ever going to do that to you again.  It’s over.  They can’t hurt you anymore.”

All of a sudden, Bucky breaks, turns his head to the side and burrows into Steve’s shoulder, sobbing.  Steve holds him for a while, talking to him softly, promising him he’s safe.  Eventually Bucky picks his head up, wipes at his eyes.

"How’d you get so good at this?” he asks.

"Good at what?”

"You know, taking care of people.  That sort of stuff.”

Steve smiles.

"You really don’t remember?”

"Maybe you’re forgetting, but I’m a brainwashed amnesiac assassin,” Bucky says. He’s joking around again, which Steve takes as a good sign. “No, I don’t remember.”

“Well I learned from you, Buck.  You’ve been doing this stuff for me my whole life.”

“Really?”

“You want me to tell you about it?”

“If you don’t wanna get back to sleep right away,” Bucky says casually, but Steve knows he’s always desperate to hear stories about their old life.

“Well, the earliest I remember, it was a Wednesday afternoon and I was nine years old, lying on your bedroom floor…”


End file.
